Art of Deception
by Highwing
Summary: Can one beast put an end to an empire's tyranny?
1. Chapter 1

_(NOTE: This story can, in a sense, be considered as a fanfic of a fanfic, since it was inspired by one of the first works I discovered upon delving into the Redwall Fanfiction Board back in 2001: Mitya's "Does Song Compose Heroes." I originally wanted to set my own story in the same timeline as Mitya's, but was dissuaded from doing so and, respecting the original author's wishes, tweaked it a bit. But, just as "DSCH" was a Redwallian allegory of the trials and tribulations of classical composer Dmitri Shostakovich's years of enforced service under Josef Stalin, so "Art of Deception" stands as a Redwallian allegory of the final days of the Soviet regime ... but I will say no more. Take the following tale as you will. Here's the first of its six parts.)_

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ART OF DECEPTION

From the death-cell confession of Kevya of Morvogrod -

So, you have finally caught me. And now that I sit before you, all four paws bound in steel chains and my very body lashed to this iron chair, what would you have me do? Beg for mercy that I know will never come? Renounce my actions? I renounce nothing. You seek a confession, yes? I will admit everything, but not in the manner you desire. You want the facts that will make everything neat and tidy, and bring some semblance of repair to the world of yours that I have shattered to bits like a smashed glass sculpture. You want methods, times, dates, the species of poisons I used ... some of this I will tell you, and some I will not. I will chose what I say here, not you. Beat me and torture me if you wish, but I suspect you already realize how useless that would be. You can only kill my body; the rest of me is far beyond your reach, for I was dead inside long before I ever came to Morvogrod. My soul was killed when your troops ran roughshod over my homeland of Argochad. If you want to know where this all begins, you must start there.

Have you ever been to Argochad? Most of your soldiers look upon my land and see only empty desert and ugly mountains, and curse the circumstances that sent them there as occupiers of a hostile conquered province. But there is great beauty in those stark landscapes, something that lets the soul know itself more fully. I knew my soul very well, before you killed it. Maybe if you had had similar places for reflection, you would not all be so empty inside that you are forced to enslave others to fill the void within yourselves.

Where shall I start? With Lebrevnya, the one who ordered the invasion of Argochad? He was my first victim here, so that is as good a starting point as any.

It is my art, you understand. I am skilled in several areas, as you have found out this day, but my art was my key to the halls of power in Morvogrod. Tyrants are vain, and always desire to surround themselves with the best of things. The best clothes, the best furniture, the best food and drink, the best music ... and yes, the best art. So I made myself the best, and saw that my reputation was spread far and wide throughout all of Argochad, so that someday I would be summoned here to make my art for the tyrant and nobeast else. It took many seasons to become as good as I am, many seasons of torturous practice while my people suffered all around me, crushed under the heel of the footpaw of Morvogrod. But my teachers were every bit as much the fanatics as I became myself, and would not let me lag in developing my skills to the utmost. How could I slack in my training, when the reason for it surrounded me day in and day out, hitting me in the face every time I set foot outdoors and saw the soldiers of Morvogrod patrolling the countryside as if it were their own? My desire to learn was fueled constantly by this affront to our ways, and as your occupation grew more and more brutal, my art became more ... beautiful.

In the end, it transcended beauty and became something more. Perhaps that is where my soul went, because I certainly do not have one anymore. I poured all of myself into my works, until they became things that made demands of their own from those who gazed upon them. When creatures saw my paintings and sculptures, they were mesmerized. They would not say simply, "This is beautiful." They would stand there transfixed by something they could not name in words, and if they said anything at all, it was not about color or texture or shape or technique. It was almost like they forgot my works were things that had been made, more like they were things which simply existed of their own accord, things of nature that were not bound by the usual ideas of artifice. But, in the end, my appreciators would always snap back to reality long enough to realize that these works did indeed have an author, and that I was that artist. With this ability that I so blatantly displayed, it was inevitable that Lebrevnya would want to hoard me all for himself.

And so it was that his agents sought me out in Argochad, bade me accompany them back to Morvogrod to receive my highest of honors - as if I had any choice! - and whisked me away to this forsaken soulless place. It was the purpose for which I had been shaped throughout my late childhood and all of my adult life, the purpose which would have rendered my existence meaningless had it gone unfulfilled ... and yet I was still reluctant to leave my homeland, knowing I would never see it again. Perhaps such nostalgia was unfitting for the assassin I had become, but it did make my performance all the more convincing. Lebrevnya's emissaries saw exactly what they expected to see: a shy, retiring, lame artist, unrefined in the social graces, very nearly a barbarian except for my extraordinary artistic ability, which nobeast in all of Morvogrod could equal. I was the most unthreatening figure imaginable, with a tear in my eye as I was led away from the land of my birth, my dialect, my customs ... my countrybeasts. An unthreatening artist, harmless to a ridiculous degree.

And that is how this scorpion came to sleep alongside his prey.

I was delivered right into the palace, escorted right to see the tyrant Lebrevnya on the very day of my arrival. I came to see in the seasons that followed that this was a most unusual thing; a tyrant likes to summon his subjects and then keep them waiting, for no other purpose than to show that he can. But Lebrevnya - that squat, offensive pig of a beast - was so eager to see me, to assign me to my first artworks that would be for his enjoyment alone, that he did not keep me waiting at all. He actually shook my paw - the great oppressor of my land and all my kinsfolk, shaking my paw as if we were to become friends. I do not think he knew what to make of me, which was just as I wanted; surely he was not impressed with me as a beast, however smitten he may have been with my work. He dismissed me summarily and had me taken to my private rooms and studio. I suppose I was to live in luxury, compared to many in Morvogrod. But I was not here to enjoy any of the comforts provided me; and I did not mind at all the atmosphere of oppression that weighed upon all, making my fellow courtiers slog through each day with a dreariness that left their souls dragging behind them like deflated shadows. None of this bothered me, for it was what I had expected. I was not here to live; I was here simply to make my art, to satisfy my new lord's every whim in all things artistic ... until it killed him.

For several seasons I worked in this manner, as you well know. Every piece commissioned to me was produced without complaint, and always I exceeded expectations. My larger sculptures came to grace the palace gardens, while smaller ones adorned various corridors and rooms. My paintings hung on many walls. And when Lebrevnya wanted to particularly impress a visiting dignitary from another land, he might present one of my smaller works as an ambassadorial gift - a way of saying both, "This is how much I think of you, to bestow upon you a token so fine," and, "This is how little I think of you, to give you but a sample of this wonderful thing that I can enjoy anytime I like." That was typical of Lebrevnya: always seeking to build bridges, but never able to be a true diplomat. His own sense of greatness always got in the way.

After several seasons of gaining his trust thus, I was ready to create my masterwork, the culmination of my very life. You might wonder, why did I not simply snap his neck on those occasions when I was alone with him, or drive a blade into his heart? You've seen that I am not the lamebeast I have pretended for so many seasons to be; it would have been well within my ability. But it was my art, developed so painstakingly over so much of my life, which had gotten me into Lebrevnya's lair. And I was determined that it would be my art, the art that the tyrant so cherished, that would be the end of him.

In Argochad, I was schooled in three talents: art, as should be obvious; fighting, as you have found out this night; and poisons, by some of the most skilled practitioners of the art who have ever lived. I learned about every type of poison imaginable, and a few that are probably beyond your imagining. Between my warrior's training and my poisoner's lore, I became a master at dispensing death in many forms. And I was determined to marry two of my talents to create a new form of art the likes of which had never been seen before.

I knew Lebrevnya had a passion for roses - both their appearance and fragrance. I had done several paintings of roses for him already, but now I prepared one that would outstrip any before it. It was large, but not so large that it would not be right at home in his private quarters. The colors were of the most exquisite red and violet - his two favorite - and of a texture that almost made them seem more real than life itself. But the most extraordinary thing about this painting was that, if you held your nose close to the canvas, you could actually smell the subtle bouquet. I achieved this by mixing the oils of rose petals right into the pigment. I knew that when Lebrevnya was presented with this piece, he would keep it in his own room, where only his eyes could see it, only his nose inhale it. I could not have crafted a more perfect doom for him. The rose fragrance was most useful, for it helped to mask a more subtle odor that also wafted from the painting. Yes, that was how I killed Lebrevnya: with a sly poison which would slowly destroy his lungs, delivered on a prize he would not be able to resist. He brought me to Morvogrod so that he could have my art all for his own. I fulfilled that desire of his, and did so gladly, for I was also fulfilling my own destiny.

Of course you know the painting of which I speak. It now hangs on display in the royal museum, moved there after Lebrevnya's death. Fortunately, it hangs high enough so that its alluring poison cannot be easily sniffed by visitors. If more beasts, after inhaling from that painting, had begun keeling over from the same mysterious illness that had claimed Lebrevnya, it might have raised questions not easily answered. But as fate would have it, my treachery was not immediately discovered.

And thus was I to become the court artist for Lebrevnya's successor, Kosturnya.


	2. Chapter 2

ART OF DECEPTION, continued

From the death-cell confession of Kevya of Morvogrod -

I see that, in your notes, you are calling me "Kevya of Morvogrod." How ironic! I am no more of Morvogrod than any of you are from Argochad. But, wait ... now that I think about it, perhaps that title is more true than I ever realized. It was Morvogrod, after all, whose invasion and occupation of my homeland turned my life in the direction that was chosen for me. It was the need for vengeance that became my sole reason to be, that defined my very existence, which I owe to Morvogrod. Without all of you, where would I be? What would I have become? We will never know now. So, while I am of Argochad by birth and by blood, by culture and by custom, by spirit and by affiliation, all of that has been twisted and perverted by what you have done to us. You sought to conquer us, and perhaps you have succeeded, in the sense that so many of my countrybeasts now live only to oppose you. Our life before you came is gone forever. And you likewise conquered me, by forcing me to become an agent of destruction against you. You are to be congratulated.

But back to Kosturnya. Never in my wildest imaginings did I suppose that I would be able to take the life of our invader Lebrevnya and remain undiscovered in Morvogrod. I knew I was clever in my subterfuge, discreet in my method of assassination. But to be free to walk the halls of this place after the hated Lebrevnya was dead and buried, that was a thing I had never even planned for. In hindsight, how could I not have suspected that I might escape detection? But I did not think in such terms. I had come here for one purpose only, on a seasons-long mission from which I held out no hope of returning. And now that Lebrevnya was disposed of, that purpose had been fulfilled. So what was I to do?

You are wondering how a subject from an occupied land, who might well harbor sympathies for the rebels who resist your troops, could manage to maintain a stash of poisons and work with them undetected, right here in the royal palace itself? It was not difficult. Who would dare to question the great Kevya, maker of art without compare, summoned here by the most high Lebrevnya himself? I carried my main stock of poisons all the way from Argochad, right in with my artist's tools and supplies, there in the open for anybeast to see. That was one advantage of producing artworks unlike any others: nobeast could understand how I achieved such things, and to them it was almost magical. When guards inspected my luggage, they saw paints and pigments and tools, the things they expected to see in an artist's baggage. But because my talent was so unique, they never stopped to consider that some of what I carried were poisons, mixed right in with my legitimate art supplies. And because Lebrevnya himself was eager to have me in his presence, the inspectors were not as thorough as they might have been. My outward appearance and demeanor contributed to the masquerade; who would have suspected a twisted-pawed, hunchbacked, introverted artist to be a trained killer?

So Lebrevnya was dead, by my paw, and now I found myself the court artist to his successor Kosturnya. Ah, Kosturnya! So unfit to rule an empire such as Morvogrod, but all that the system could come up with on such short notice. A beast of simple tastes, overwhelmed to find himself at the helm of the nation to which he had been a mere functionary for so many seasons. He was only too well aware that no real power rested with him, that the true rulers of Morvogrod would be those in the shadows who whispered their desires to him in the night and expected him to carry out their secret biddings. He was happy to play along ... and so was I.

Could it be? I asked myself. Could I remain in place to kill not just one but two of Morvogrod's rulers? Lebrevnya might be gone, but the soldiers he'd sent to Argochad were still there, and the regime of Kosturnya showed no indication of recalling them. I had been around the royal court long enough to know by that time that there were many despicable creatures employed here, generals and spies and manipulators, any of whose deaths might prove a boon to my besieged homeland. But my attention locked onto Kosturnya. I had been sent here to kill the leader of Morvogrod, and now I might have the opportunity to succeed twice in this area.

Did you know Kosturnya? I spent enough time in his presence to get to know him fairly well myself ... not that there was much there to know. As I said, a simple beast. Uncomplicated. My great fortune was that he professed an affection for my works, and decided to keep me on. I have always wondered about this; in my heart I suspect that poor Kosturnya was utterly baffled by my art, too undeveloped in his tastes to truly appreciate it. But he was always one to seek approval from his peers. My art was widely hailed, his predecessor had liked it so much that he'd brought me here from Argochad to make it for the royal court, and so Kosturnya deemed that he must like my art too, or else risk appearing an unrefined fool. And so I remained, to pleasure my new master in any way that I was able.

It only took me a season to discover the particular pleasure of his which would be his downfall. As you may or may not know, Kosturnya was particularly fond of picture flip-books. You know, the ones with a succession of similar drawings which, when flipped quickly, create the illusion of movement. Kosturnya had seen one or two as a child, and asked me if I could make one for him. I happily obliged, with a couple of simple examples. Ah, you should have seen him! Or maybe you did, since the secret police seem to keep an eye on everything that goes on here. Anyway, he was delighted! He would sit there for long periods, flipping the pages in total absorption, oblivious to anything else.

It was on those occasions that I observed a peculiar habit of Kosturnya's. He was incapable of reading any book or document without pausing to lick his paws between turns of the page. So pronounced a tendency, it could only have been some nervous affliction; he was probably not even aware of it. It was then that I decided to make him the most lavish flip book that had ever been seen in Morvogrod.

If Kosturnya had been delighted by my earlier examples, he was enraptured by my masterpiece! It featured a band of cavorting woodland minstrels - hares, squirrels, otters - dancing 'round as they played their silent melody. I knew Kosturnya was fond of woodlanders and the simple lives they led, but in a romantic, removed way; it almost did not seem to occur to him that these were the very same creatures his regime oppressed and tortured day in and day out. It was a fantasy version of woodlanders that he liked, of the kind found in childhood stories. But then, that was the kind of beast Kosturnya was.

I did put a lot of work into that book, for such a triviality. The fullness of the squirrel's bushy tails, that seemed to puff and swirl as the pages were flipped ... the sheen of the otters' fur, the joyful flopping of the hares' ears and the stomp of their footpaws. It was quite an elaborate piece, for an entertainment usually reserved for children. And my efforts went beyond merely the artistic, for imbued into the pristine, clean white page edges was another of my specialty poisons, this time one that would produce a fairly quick death if taken through the mouth in even the tiniest of quantities.

Well, Kosturnya could not put that book down when I presented it to him. Over and over he flipped it, to witness the festive imaginary creatures playing out their scene before his eyes ... and after every flip, he would lick his paw, that had been in contact with the page edges. Flip, lick. Flip, lick. And all the while, that vacant expression of childlike delight upon his face. Like he had been reduced to an infantile state once more, without a rational thought in his head. Surely, not at all like the leader of a great and powerful empire like Morvogrod.

But his smile would not fade, and I smiled along with him


	3. Chapter 3

ART OF DECEPTION, continued

From the death-cell confession of Kevya of Morvogrod -

You want to know about the mole, Ogachev? That is the one incident about this entire affair that gives me regret. I allowed myself to form friendships with nobeast in Morvogrod, but I came very close with Ogachev. A retiring and humble creature, like most moles, content to serve here in the palace without drawing undue attention to himself. He was always kind and deferential to me, not in the same manner that he was toward the others he served but more as an equal. No doubt he saw me as a kindred spirit, a fellow goodbeast caught in the vast machinations of this corrupt metropolis through no fault of my own, and helpless to do anything about it. O, how badly he misjudged me!

It was my charade, my masquerade, that was his undoing. No, that is not true; it was a slip in my vigilance that is to blame, and I must take full responsibility for it. It was not easy, spending so many seasons of my life in this place and playing the part of a cripple for the entire time. Or should I say, not the entire time, but whenever I was in the presence of others. It was quite hard work, actually, stumping about on one perpetually-inturned footpaw, hobbling along hunched over by my supposedly malformed spine. But every night, or nearly so, when I was alone in my private quarters with the windows safely shuttered and the doors securely locked, my footpaw would untwist to its natural angle and my back would unbend until I stood as straight and proud as any ruler of Morvogrod ever did. And it was then that I would perform my fighting exercises, as taught to me on the barren and secluded hills of Argochad by my war masters. I did not know if I would ever have the opportunity to use my warrior's skills, but never did I lag in my discipline. I drilled almost every night of my long stay in Morvogrod, staying fit and trim, as deadly in my true nature as I seemed harmless during my days.

You have seen how deadly. Minister Pryshenko made a fatal mistake when he brought only six guards with him to confront me with his evidence. Six guards: more than enough to intimidate a lame and docile poisoner. Pryshenko must have felt very safe; certainly he gloated as I feigned terror at having been discovered. What was happening to me must be the nightmare of every creature who lives at the whim of the royal court, never knowing when the secret police might show up without warning with accusations either valid or groundless. Pryshenko was one of those despicable creatures of the Morvogrod court to whom I alluded earlier. Of course, how could one be a successful Minister of Information without being despicable? But I digress.

I do not brag when I say that I could have slain all six of those guards. I merely state the facts. How many did I kill, by the way? Two that I am sure of, and perhaps a third ... but if I'd concerned myself only with the guards, then Pryshenko might have escaped. I was found out either way, and I could never have made it out of this palace alive. I knew this day would come sooner or later, so I decided to make the most of it. I state for the record that one of the great satisfactions of my life was ripping Pryshenko's own knife from his paws and driving it under his jaw up into his brain. He was not gloating then, I can tell you!

I did fight on, even after I'd killed Pryshenko. I planned to fight to the death, to end my life taking as many Morvogrodians with me as I could. If that extra contingent of palace guards had not come upon us at that moment by pure happenstance, drawn by the commotion, I might be at peace now. As it was, you were able to overwhelm me without killing me. Ah, well. I am still at peace, for what happens to me now doesn't matter. And now you will be granted the education of my confession, to do with what you will.

Here is something that should amuse you. When Lebrevnya was still alive, I fashioned a belt for myself. It was a wide one, very ornamental, an indulgence for the royal court artist. It also contained a cleverly concealed dagger, sufficient for me to slay a beast or two were I discovered prematurely. Well, Lebrevnya saw me wearing it one day, and was so taken with it that he insisted I give it to him. No other would do; he did not want me to make him another just like it, but wanted only the exact one before him. I was very petulant about relinquishing it, for reasons that totally escaped him, but at last I was left no choice but to yield to his demands. If that tyrant had discovered my secret blade, ejected by a tricky spring mechanism, surely my mission would have been brought to a premature and unfulfilled end. But for the better part of two seasons Lebrevnya wore that belt, and never did he stumble upon my hidden weapon. It was a close call, and it taught me to never again hide a blade of mine in one of my artworks.

Oh, I was going to tell you about the mole Ogachev, wasn't I? Ogachev was a simple and kindly waiterbeast, as inoffensive in his benevolent nature as Morvogrod is offensive in its virulent one. He would often tarry in my presence, for I did not intimidate him the way most of the important personages of the court did. In fact, he wrangled things until he became practically my personal servantmole. Even as I hid my true nature from him, we would talk of things the way friends might talk ... as equals, not as master and servant. I suppose I could say I was just being true to my charade, for the unprepossessing Kevya would never talk down to anybeast or act with haughty superiority. But the truth is that I did cherish his company, as much as I could cherish anything in this place. It was a relief to be able to spend some time with a beast who was neither depraved nor sycophantic, but merely honest and sensible. Well, he was sensible enough not to be too honest, if you take my meaning, but when we were alone with each other he would drop his guard and speak as plainly as anybeast could speak within the palace walls. Unfortunately, I became accustomed to dropping my own guard when Ogachev was around. And that is something I have regretted every day since his death.

He came upon me one night as I was performing my training exercises. My main door was locked, as always, but I had neglected to bolt the inner service door by which I had seen Ogachev out a short time earlier. I thought he had left for the night, and did not expect his return. In the midst of a spinning head kick in the middle of my studio floor, I saw him standing there, watching me in stunned silence. Until that moment he knew me only as a crippled shybeast; I am surprised he even recognized me at all, my transformation must have been so astounding. Even then, he did not appreciate what it was he was witnessing. I have always remembered what he said then, and it has haunted me from that day to this. "Bo hurr, Mizter Kevya, you'm be a-cured!"

I smiled at him, for what else could I do? "Yes," I said to him, "I am cured." I crossed the floor quickly to where he stood, quickly but calmly, so as not to startle him. In one motion I patted his shoulder in the the most friendly manner that my trembling muscles would allow ... and then snapped his neck.

His death was a quick one, but that was little consolation to me. The closest thing to a friend that I had in this fur-forsaken place, gone through my own negligence. It was almost like the belt all over again, a lesson not to take anything for granted. I had no choice, you understand. Once Ogachev had seen me as I really was, I could not allow him to live. Even had he sworn to keep the secret, my mission was too important. When the guards came to my quarters in response to my anguished cries, and found Ogachev's limp body sprawled at the foot of the short stairway leading down from my bedroom, none questioned my story that he had tripped and fallen down the steps. What were they to suspect - that the lame hunchback before them had committed murder upon a creature that everybeast knew I was fond of? And when Ogachev was buried in one of the less dignified areas of the palace grounds, I would visit his grave often, shedding a silent tear as I stood over it in mourning. I did not care if anybeast saw me; they would merely think I was grieving over a lost friend. Which I was.

Some lessons can only be learned the hard way


	4. Chapter 4

ART OF DECEPTION, continued

From the death-cell confession of Kevya of Morvogrod -

I love Sasha Tomitky more, perhaps, than I have ever loved any other creature.

Ah, I see from your faces what you are thinking. Sasha and I are both malebeasts, and not even the same species. Well, of course I am not talking about that kind of love ... although, if I were, you would no doubt label that a crime too, and persecute me for it even had I committed no other offense. But my actual offenses are almost too numerous to enumerate, so we'll not get into that ...

Love of the flesh - mating, lovemaking, lust - is a shallow and transitory thing compared to what I am talking about. When two minds meet, when two spirits are in harmony, now that is when creatures can connect in a way that is truly meaningful. I do not make light of romantic passion; sometimes bodies can be shared in a way that is also meaningful. But without some kind of deeper understanding between the participants, some union of their souls, it is all just empty pleasure. Just ... mating.

I know the name of Sasha Tomitky is not looked upon favorably in Morvogrod these days. Ever since Sasha made his escape to Mossflower, and afterwards denounced Morvogrod for the monstrous system that it is, that fox has been anathema in the royal court. You have even erased him from your history books, as you try to eradicate any fact or personage which does not please you or conform to your idea of how things should be. But he did exist, and in spite of your best efforts, his reputation endures beyond Morvogrod.

I of course never met Sasha. How could I have? I was not even born when he made his escape to Mossflower, and was but a babe when he died. But, as I have said, his reputation endured far beyond his own life and personal experiences. Have you ever heard any of his compositions? Oh, I know all of his music is officially banned here in Morvogrod, but the higher-placed functionaries such as yourselves often indulge in things which are officially banned. Don't deny it; I have seen such transgressions with my own eyes. Of course, it would be difficult to have a symphony concert in secret, but many of Sasha's works could be enjoyed on a smaller scale, with just piano or a string quartet. No, you insist you haven't? It's probably just as well. If any of Sasha's music were to be played in Morvogrod today, it would undoubtedly be the some of the horrendous, unimaginative drivel he was forced to compose for the royal court under Yosef, most terrible of all of Morvogrod's tyrants. You have not truly heard any of Sasha Tomitky's music until you have experienced the compositions he created here in secret, for his own satisfaction, or those he wrote in Mossflower, after he was free from the yoke of Morvogrod's artistic oppression. That is his real music, to which his "official" pieces cannot begin to compare.

I have never heard his music played by a symphony, a string ensemble, or even on a piano. The music of my homeland Argochad tends to be more of the simple folk variety, representative of that region. But other influences do creep across national boundaries. And music is, after all, the language that everybeast can understand, regardless of the dialect they speak.

There was a mole who came to my village during the seasons of my training. He came to us from Mossflower, to aid us in our struggle against the Morvogrod occupation. Yes, news of your tyranny does travel far indeed. Anyway, this mole had known Sasha Tomitky personally in the composer's later seasons, and had learned many of Sasha's pieces. He played an instrument which was rather like a cross between a lute and a zither. You might wonder that his massive digging claws did not get stuck in the strings, but they never did, such was the level of his dedication to his musical craft. I am sure it was not the best way to hear Sasha's music, but it was the only way available to me, and I was captivated. It was not like any music I had ever heard before, and it opened up a whole new world for me. Even as I was creating my own beautiful art for ultimately murderous purposes, it was comforting to know that there was still beauty in the world that had nothing to do with dark intent.

And then I was told of his story. If his music had not been enough to move me, his personal circumstances most certainly would have. For any true talent to have his skills abducted by an unfeeling and uncaring regime, to be told what kind of art to make, to be forbidden from truly expressing yourself under pain of punishment, unless it was late at night in the secret confines of whatever private space you could carve out for yourself - and then not dare risk showing your true artistry to anybeast - that is a story that wrenched my heart. Yes, that was exactly what I had volunteered to do, to put my artistic abilities at the complete disposal of the tyrants of Morvogrod ... but I had an underlying purpose to my art, one that had nothing to do with artistic satisfaction or fulfillment. I would do whatever was necessary to place myself close to my intended victim. Sasha had no such agenda, and was wholly unprepared for the circumstances in which he found himself. And while I pretended to be meek, for Sasha it was no act. The idea of a beast as sensitive and fragile as he, caught in the crushing machinations of the Morvogrodian system, was almost torturous for me to even contemplate.

I had the mole play me every piece of Sasha's that he knew, over and over again. There were a few of the official court compositions in there, but mostly it was Sasha's real music, that he made away from the eyes and ears of the Morvogrod court. Hearing the beauty of it, knowing how that beauty had been smothered for so many seasons until Sasha's liberation, knowing that he was driven sometimes to the point of despair and to the very brink of suicide by the hopelessness of his situation ... all of this fueled my hatred of Morvogrod and solidified my resolve to carry on with my mission of assassination. It was bad enough seeing firstpaw how my own homeland was suffering under Morvogrod's occupation, but to learn that their tyranny had been terrorizing beasts since long before my birth, that made me want to kill every Morvogrodian soldier I saw, made me want to march straight to the royal court myself without waiting for Lebrevnya's invitation and let the dictator know my blade. But my teachers instilled great patience in me, and so I bided my time.

I am glad that I did. By staying true to my plan, I was able to kill Lebrevnya, and then Kosturnya as well. And then came Yurdurov ... and that made my patience the most worthwhile of all.


	5. Chapter 5

ART OF DECEPTION, continued

From the death-cell confession of Kevya of Morvogrod -

Someday, your precious system here will collapse.

I will not live to see it happen, this I know. But I can envision it, and the prospect fills me with hope. And when the system collapses, your veil of lies will fall from the eyes of the creatures you oppress here, and they will see your evils for what they really have been. They will be free to speak openly of the daily horrors which they dare not even whisper about now, for fear of a visit from your soldiers in the middle of the night. They will come to recognize you for the monsters you are, and they will curse your memory as I curse you now.

There have been many monsters in Morvogrod. Lebrevnya was a minor monster, I realize now, even if he was the one who ordered the invasion of my homeland. And Kosturnya, he is not even worth mentioning in the same breath as your more accomplished tyrants. Sasha Tomitky, he knew the worst of your monsters firstpaw when he was brought to the court of Yosef. Now there was a creature worthy of the label monster. Yosef's reigns of terror made Lebrevnya seem a rank amateur by comparison. As horrendous as I found things here in Morvogrod under Lebrevnya and Kosturnya, it must have been so much worse for poor Sasha under Yosef. I can scarcely imagine anybeast, much less a sensitive soul like Sasha, having to endure such a regime day after day, season after season. Of course, Yosef was so intent upon maintaining his own power and rooting out his real and imagined enemies for destruction, he could not be expected to devote more than a fleeting and cursory interest to his lowly court composer. I have heard it said that Yosef would often talk about Sasha right in front of him, as if the songmaster wasn't even there. Perhaps this was actually a relief for Sasha; knowing his temperament, I am sure he would rather have been ignored by Yosef than to have had the full attention of a bloodthirsty, paranoid dictator like that. Sometimes it is better to keep your peace and try to stay invisible, however bruising that might be to an artist's ego.

When Yosef died, there must have been a great relief throughout Morvogrod and the lands it occupied. I cannot conceive that it could have been otherwise. There may not have been celebrations in the streets, and nobeast may have spoken aloud that they were glad of his passing - at least not in public - but I am sure the feeling was there nonetheless. Not even the sense of patriotism that Yosef played upon during Morvogrod's tensions with Mossflower and Redwall could counterbalance the environment of oppression he engendered.

I thought I had seen the worst that Morvogrod had to offer when I worked under Lebrevnya. But I was wrong. My treachery remained undiscovered after I killed Lebrevnya, and that allowed me to stay in place so that I could assassinate Kosturnya as well. And when I still was not found out after that second murder - thank fates and all seasons! - I became court artist under my third master in Morvogrod, Yurdurov.

What can I say about Yurdurov? Here was a beast with the potential to be every bit as bad as Yosef. It was The Terror all over again. Yurdurov, of the secret police. Yurdurov, who might have harbored suspicions about the deaths of his predecessors, and manipulated the situation to ensure that he would become next leader of Morvogrod. Yurdurov, whose contacts from his old post might allow him total suffocating control over his empire to a degree not seen since the days of Yosef, and whose rabid nationalism would almost certainly have led him into all-out war with Redwall and Mossflower. Lebrevnya had been bad enough, but I had not seen true evil firstpaw until I met Yurdurov.

I know now - yes, I can hear the whispers and rumors as well as anybeast - that Yurdurov was indeed looking hard for the conspirators who may have poisoned Lebrevnya and Kosturnya. But when one harbors such suspicions, one thinks of those who prepare the leaders' food and drink, or perhaps wash their clothes. The court artist is not who immediately comes to mind as one who could commit such deeds as I have done. And so I remained free from the cloud of suspicion, free from the imposition of late-night interrogations, even as I plotted Yurdurov's doom.

I had to kill Yurdurov. I could not have allowed him to live, anymore than I could have allowed poor Ogachev to live after that mole had seen me performing my fighting exercises. Yes, I had fulfilled my mission by murdering the one who'd ordered the occupation of my homeland, and then sweetened the deal by claiming his successor as well. But Yurdurov was so much worse than the other two. I knew that if he were allowed to consolidate his power and take full command of Morvogrod, my countrybeasts - and many others besides, both here and elsewhere - would suffer far more than before.

The question was, how? Even if I were to remain at liberty, that would not accomplish my goal. My freedom, my very life, was of no consequence compared to the threat posed by Yurdurov. But this new tyrant was not interested in my art, and made no pretense of appreciation for the sake of appearing refined in such matters. He was a ruthless apparatchik, unconcerned with social niceties, interested only in politics and security. I tell you now that I came very close to abandoning my charade altogether and attacking him directly. If we had ever been alone in the same room together, I might have done just that. I know I could have killed him. But since I was not even remotely within his sphere of concern, what reason would he have had to meet privately with his forgotten court artist? And how was I to kill him with my art if he wanted nothing to do with it?

So, I did what I was best at. I bided my time, and observed my new master as well as I could. I still made art - even if Yurdurov was immune to my talents, other high-ranking court officials still clamoured for it. And although it took over a season, during which paranoia grew palpable in the palace and even I was the recipient of more than one analyzing stare, I at last found my quarry's weakness, as I always do.

Yurdurov was not moved by things of sight or sound - to him, vision and hearing were the tools of power, not to be squandered on mere frivolities like art and music. And he was far too unimaginative and unromantic to be snared by the kind of aromatic trap I'd set for Lebrevnya. No, Yurdurov's weakness was his sense of touch. He was a tactilly-oriented beast, constantly touching, caressing objects with his pawtips as if analyzing them thus would reduce them to their most basic nature and allow him to understand them fundamentally. This was not a character trait that was ever talked about - indeed, one did not talk about Yurdurov much at all, if a creature knew what was good for it - but I observed it enough times on the few occasions when I did find myself in Yurdurov's presence. This would be my avenue of attack. I could only hope it would work. And whether I was caught this time was unimportant.

I see that vase on the table now before us. It was in Pryshenko's paws when he and his guards came to arrest me. Of course, knowing its true nature, the Information Minister had it wrapped in a cloth so that his fur would not come into direct contact with the glaze. It did not slip from his grasp even after I grabbed his blade and rammed it into his brain. He slid to the floor with my vase still held in his paw. I suppose I should be flattered; while my art has killed Morvogrodians before, tonight was the first time I had the pleasure of seeing one of you die while holding it.

I was going to use the same kind of poison that I'd put into the page edges of Kosturnya's picture flip-book, but it turned out that that particular type of poison was neutralized by the glaze. I could not use just any kind of poison, in the same way that I could not use just any kind of glaze. The coating on the vase had to seem superficially stable like any ordinary potter's glaze, and yet slowly wear off upon repeated handling. The poison was in the glaze, and was of a type that would be absorbed through the fur and skin and directly into the body. But you already know this from your analysis, otherwise Minister Pryshenko would never have moved openly against me. I could not depend upon Yurdurov to lick his paws after every handling of the vase the way Kosturnya did after entertaining himself with his flip-book. I needed something more subtle and yet more sure. I was free to experiment to my heart's content; with a new tyrant in power who did not care about me one way or the other, I was seldom disturbed in my studio, and even if I had been, who would have been able to tell whether I was concocting poisons or paint colors? And since paints themselves are often toxic, it is hardly surprising that I was never caught before now.

Yurdurov displayed no outward emotion when I presented him with the vase on the occasion of the first season anniversary of his reign. But I could see his paws caressing it probingly from the moment he received it, and I knew he was getting pleasure from the experience. I made that vase especially for him, remember, and I made it irresistible. Look at it now before you, on the table there; look at its exquisite curves and undulations, almost like it is flowing while standing perfectly still. Look at its perfect compactness, the economy of line and form. Even knowing how deadly it is, doesn't some part of you still yearn to reach out and touch it now, to feel the smooth flow of its shape under your paws? For Yurdurov, it would have been unthinkable not to touch it. Had it not been poisoned, it might almost have made him an admirer of mine after all.

But then he died. The third ruler of Morvogrod to die in such a relatively short time, that would have been sure to arouse suspicions under any circumstances. But Yurdurov's cronies - such as Pryshenko, who I am sure had an eye on the throne for himself - were quick to investigate this time. The entire secret police force and all of its investigators descended upon the palace, scrutinizing every aspect of Yurdurov's death and circumstances. Expert eyes diagnosed the cause of death as poisoning - you do not have to tell me this, I know I used a less subtle poison this time that was sure to be detected - and in time the vase was pinpointed as the murder weapon. And since there could be but one beast in all of Morvogrod with the skill and expertise to devise such a weapon of beauty, it brought your guards to my door this night.

I have no regrets. Yurdurov is dead, Pryshenko is dead as an added bonus, and that is all that matters. The time of Morvogrod as a threat to its neighbors and a terror to its own citizens is drawing to an end. I was resigned to my own death long before I ever set foot inside this palace. And I have achieved far more than I had ever hoped to accomplish. Everything has unfolded as it was meant to. I have no regrets.


	6. Chapter 6

ART OF DECEPTION, concluded

From the death-cell confession of Kevya of Morvogrod -

I have no illusions that my statements here tonight will ever be known to the world at large. It is not just the nature of my crimes - killing not one, not two but three of your leaders, along with Minister Pryshenko and some of his guards - but the very fact that I was able to commit them at all. I can see in your faces - do not forget that I am a studious observer of personalities and their natures - I can see in your faces that what I have done has shaken your system to its very core. Even now, I suspect that my paintings are being taken down from every wall where they hang in Morvogrod, my sculptures removed from garden and hallway, my name removed from every place it may happen to be written. If these things are not happening as we speak, I am sure they soon will be. I've lived here long enough to know how things work in Morvogrod. I will be erased from your history far more thoroughly than Sasha Tomitky ever was.

But I am now an irrevocable part of your history, and nothing you can do will ever change that. And I feel that your attempts to do so will only hasten what I have already started. Even as I made my final preparations for ending Yurdurov's life, I could sense a change in the wind. More and more news of Redwall and Mossflower is reaching your closed society, in spite of your best efforts. And things go badly for you in Argochad, no matter how much you try to hide the fact. My kinsfolk there inflict greater losses upon you with each season that passes. Your occupation has turned us into fanatics, willing to die for our cause if we can take a few of you with us. The news of your soldiers' deaths reaches their families here, and there has been too much grieving to be kept secret any longer. Yurdurov and Pryshenko may have possessed the necessary talent for oppression and tyranny to keep things going as they were, but something tells me they were the last of a dying breed. Soon the voices of your citizens will rise up for the occupation of my homeland to cease, for your troops to be brought home to Morvogrod, and you will not be able to ignore their wishes. The time of great change is nearly upon you, and I fear you will find it most painful.

I might almost not have moved against Yurdurov, had it not been for the one dim ray of hope that I found shining in the Morvogrod court. Pryshenko will not now succeed Yurdurov, I have made sure of that. So who will? My guess is that Mikhail will fill that void. He is popular with the other functionaries, who see him as competent without being overly threatening. I have been watching him for some time now, and I have hopes that he will be able to resist the usual temptations of tyranny. I have only spoken with him a few times, but I detect a genuine concern for the folk of Morvogrod in him. He will not seek to ruthlessly oppress them, and he will not be content to allow his soldiers to keep dying in the fruitless morass of Argochad. He will change things, if he is not crushed by his own system first. What, will you rush out from here now and seek to stop him? You are powerful, but I think you overestimate even your own power if you imagine you can stop the change that is coming. If you make an enemy of Mikhail, you will be making an enemy of the people of Morvogrod, more than you can afford to, and then you may be faced with a bloody revolution instead of the bloodless one Mikhail promises. The choice is yours. Do you want to risk ending up like Pryshenko, only with your heads on stakes outside your own palace? Remember your last revolution, and remember it well. The citizens of Morvogrod can explode in most unpleasant ways if they are pushed too far. And they just might do exactly that, if you take away from them the promise that Mikhail holds. Yosef and Yurdurov and Pryshenko may have been able to terrorize them into submission, but all your leaders with such tyrannical talent are gone now. Terror will turn to disaster for you now ... and if you do not believe me, try it. My spirit will watch from the next world as you drown in your own blood.

You want to know where I get the courage and the strength to defy you, even now? Then go to my studio after you are finished with me, and you will find one of my last paintings leaning against the wall by the door. You will know it when you see it: a large, red-brick building, bathed in the warm sunshine of a summer I have never seen myself. It is Redwall, of course - your longtime ideological adversary, the place at the center of Mossflower which stands for peace and freedom as certainly as Morvograd has always stood for tyranny and oppression. I have never seen Redwall with my own eyes, any more than I ever got to shake paws with Sasha Tomitky, but I know both equally well. Just I have heard Sasha's music, and know his spirit through that, so I have spoken at length with creatures who have been to Redwall, and even lived there. I have shown the finished painting to beasts who have seen Redwall in person, and they have told me that I've captured its essence quite well. I will present that painting to you, since you have never succeeded in capturing Redwall in actuality, and this may be as close as you will ever come. I certainly will have no need for it anymore, once I am quietly executed. I know your temptation will be to destroy it outright, along perhaps with all of my works, but I suggest to you that that would be folly. Look upon my painting, and look hard, and you will see all that is lacking in Morvogrod, and why your citizens are so miserable. Give them sun instead of eternal night, give them plenty instead of constant want, give them freedom instead of tyranny, and perhaps you will never need to capture Redwall. You will have everything they have, right here.

That is my dream: a Morvogrod that is more like Redwall, an Argochad which is free from your occupation, and a future in which hope has replaced despair. This is not your dream, I know, because your power will be lost in such a world. But it is coming, whether you like it or not. At least, I hope and believe that it is coming. I have done my part. I will be rewarded for my efforts once I have left this world. And I will be watching from the next, to see whether my prognosis bears out. I am confident that it will.

I am ready to die. You may kill me now.

(Interrogator's Note: The prisoner remained silent and spoke not a word more after that.


End file.
